I suppose everyone has their own wonder food. Proust had his little madeleines, capable of taking him back to his childhood. For me, every sip of apple cider contains within it the memory of every other swallow. The initial taste, sweet on the tongue, is of my first trip to Calgary's Kensington District in the fall of my Grade 10 year. As a kid from Calgary's northeast, Kensington seemed otherworldly. I forget what movie I had gone to see with my friends, a mix of boys and girls thrown together. We barely knew each other and couples were still sorting themselves out. After the movie, we had stopped at a coffee shop. I ordered apple cider with a stick of cinnamon in it. I don't think I impressed anyone that night.
The next few sips bring wonderful memories of lying in bed, deep in winter, well past midnight, reading William T. Vollmann's excellent novel, The Atlas, with only my cider to keep me company as I ride Vollmann's vivid prose across snowy Japan and frigid Manitoba.
Then come phantom memories. Ice skating at Olympic Plaza. Snow forts. Things I'm pretty sure I never did.
Finally, as the cup cools, the satisfaction of sitting snowed-in at Lake Louise, writing happily as my wife knits nearby, drinking cider and watching the sun cross the lake, no one else in sight.
